


On Heroes

by nox_candida



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Morality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-04
Updated: 2011-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-17 14:49:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nox_candida/pseuds/nox_candida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas Eve, it's cold, and there's a serial killer stalking London. But maybe this is one case that shouldn't be solved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Heroes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tibididim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tibididim/gifts).



> My fic for the sherlockmas fic exchange on LJ, written for bbakerb. Big thanks to my Britpicker, melaszka, and my beta, humantales, for looking this over for me quickly and thoroughly.

It’s Christmas Eve and it’s bloody freezing. The wind is whipping through the layers he’s wearing—for all the good they’re doing him—though the snow has let up for a bit. He’s still soaked from the earlier snowfall, though, and there’s still a thin layer of it on the pavement. He’s not certain if it’s supposed to start up again; he just hopes that if it does, it’ll hold off until he makes it back to Baker Street, where it’s marginally warmer and certainly drier.

But there’s been another murder. It’s the fourth this month, a serial killer who—once his victims are dead—wraps them in colourful wrapping paper, sticks a bow on top, and adds a gift tag as a sort of calling card.

All of the victims are being given as presents, and all them are from “Santa.”

John shudders as another gust of arctic air finds its way into the gap between his neck and the edge of his jacket and he hunches over further, gloved hands pulled tight into his body.

Sherlock, of course, is in his element. He’s pacing around the unwrapped body of Milton Greene, 62, his large coat whipping out behind him like a wool whirlwind. The bone-deep cold that is causing everyone else to hunch over to preserve warmth has virtually no effect on him, as if it’s nothing more than a mild autumn breeze. John believes—in moments like these, when he’s cold, exhausted, and his brain is prone to wandering—that Sherlock’s enjoyment in the game, in solving the puzzle, is like a shield that protects him from such mundane things as weather.

He can’t help but think Sherlock glorious in these circumstances, but it’s a little like staring at a bright flame in a cold, dark cave.

“Paedophile,” Sherlock says after a moment of closely examining Mr Greene’s hands.

Lestrade, standing near John, sighs quietly, hardly a sound at all, certainly, but John is close enough to barely hear it over the sound of the wind. He sounds weary and unsurprised, which is similar to how John himself is feeling.

It’s the reason he doesn’t want to be here, despite himself. It’s the reason the forensics team look to be putting in a halfhearted effort collecting evidence and taking photographs. It’s the reason that Sherlock seems to be the only one giving his all.

It’s the one thing all the victims have had in common—their capacity to leave other victims, more innocent ones, in their wake.

John usually never tires of hearing Sherlock work, not only the deductions themselves—the way he seems to pull information out of a hat—but also the process. It doesn’t take away from the mystery to see the tricks of the trade; unlike a magician, being walked through the process of deduction doesn’t ruin the magic of it.

But this time—this whole case, really—is different, because John doesn’t want to hear how the killer must be 6’2, judging by the angle of the gunshot wound, or how he (and of course it’s a he, you can tell by where he placed the bow and how he formed the ‘S’ on Santa, obvious) is younger and fitter than the victim because he was able to dump him here without dragging him.

He suspects most of the police surrounding him feel the same way—he certainly _knows_ that Donovan and Anderson do, as he’d heard them whispering how they had better things to do on Christmas Eve than watch the Freak prance around a crime scene deducing the identity of a killer who was performing a public service. They hadn’t quite put it in those terms—their language had been far less restrained, as a matter of fact—but John could certainly sympathise with the sentiment, much as he was loath to agree with either of them about anything.

Even Lestrade seems only to be making an effort because he’s trying to set an example that no one is above the law. It’s hard to set an example if you don’t really believe in what you’re preaching.

The British public, too, doesn’t seem too keen on seeing this particular killer put behind bars, judging by the slant taken in the press which seems to romanticise rather than terrorise. In fact, John is fairly certain that he’s seen this killer referred to as Robin Hood in more than one place.

And there was Sherlock, intent as always on solving the puzzle, winning the game, only this time his efforts were going unappreciated for a rather unusual reason. Genius like his, the kind that burns bright and brings light to darkness, is often dismissed as madness.

John shivers again, pulled from his thoughts as Sherlock stops pacing around the body and looks at him. “John?”

“Yes?”

He waves him over and points at the base of Mr Greene’s skull. “Bullet point blank range to the hindbrain. Killed him instantly.”

It’s not really a question—actually, it’s rather obvious that this man died instantly, as half of his head’s been blown off—but John nods anyway, certain that Sherlock has some other reason for calling him over.

“Look at this,” he says, pointing at the body and squatting down ostensibly to get a closer look. John reluctantly does, as well—his leg always acts up in the cold weather, and the damp, and it doesn’t get colder or damper than right now—and peers down at whatever Sherlock’s pointing at. John suspects he’s not really pointing at anything important.

“Why is everyone acting more idiotically than usual?” Sherlock asks him in an undertone.

 _Ah, now we come to it_ , John thinks. He’s not really sure how to explain. “Well,” he says carefully, pretending to look at Mr Greene’s neck, “I suspect that most people aren’t too keen to punish a man who seems to be doing some good in society.”

Without looking up, John can tell that Sherlock is positively staring at him, but it doesn’t make him uncomfortable. He’s had plenty of time to get used to it, after all.

“What does that matter when there’s a crime to solve? Aren’t normal people overly concerned with what is right and lawful?” Sherlock asks, causing John to glance up at him.

It’s clear that Sherlock doesn’t know quite what to make of this information. Oh, he’s familiar enough with the grey areas—the places other people skirt and flit through when it suits them—but John knows that Sherlock sees the world in a fundamentally different way. He’s the man with the light, after all, and when he illuminates something with it, there are no shadows. There are details, brilliantly sharp and defined in full colour and sound. For everyone else, there is light and dark and patches of dark that are almost light but not quite and patches of light that seem dimmer than others. There are greys. There are hidden spaces where virtually anything can lurk.

John bites his lip and looks back down at the body. “Most of the time,” he says in acknowledgement, “but there are always exceptions.” He pauses and then tries to head Sherlock’s frown of consternation off at the pass. “There are those times you miss something, right? Well, there are times when what’s expected and what happens don’t match up for whatever reason.”

“Illogical,” Sherlock dismisses, and John’s not terribly surprised, because Sherlock’s right. It’s illogical. But it doesn’t stop it from being true.

And it doesn’t stop John from trying, one last time, to explain. “Do you remember that conversation we had, about heroes?”

Sherlock looks at him intently, his mouth and eyebrows briefly indicating surprise at the non-sequitur before tilting his head in consideration.

“Sometimes a person comes along who isn’t a typical hero, but people call them one anyway. Maybe they don’t fit the typical mould, but there’s something about what they’re doing that makes them a hero to others.”

“You’re telling me that people consider a serial killer a hero?” Sherlock asks him. John doesn’t need to be a consulting detective—or, indeed, very bright—to hear the disbelief and disdain in his voice.

“Not…a traditional hero. More of a Robin Hood type. Breaking the law, but only because the law doesn’t work like it’s supposed to.”

Sherlock stares at him, seemingly absorbing this information. John’s not sure how Sherlock is processing that information, how he’s slotting that in with everything he’s learned about normal people and normal society by generally being an outsider to it all.

But John stands anyway, certain the conversation is concluded for the moment—and certain his leg can’t take squatting awkwardly any longer—and retreats to where he was standing.

He watches as Sherlock stands slowly, circling the body, but John notices that his eyes—instead of having that scalpel-like sharpness—are slightly unfocused, looking beyond the body and the clues.

Lestrade shifts around on his feet, breathing briskly on his hands and clearly impatient for Sherlock to get on with it. Eventually—much sooner than he normally would—he asks, “Well? What have you found?”

John can see the way Sherlock hesitates, just for a brief second, before turning to face Lestrade, mask in place.

“Virtually nothing,” he says imperiously. “This weather and your usual ineptness have ruined anything that might have been of use.”

John glances over at Lestrade, whose eyebrows have been inching towards his hairline and whose face is registering surprise and not a little suspicion. “That so?”

“Indeed,” Sherlock sneers, pulling his coat tighter around him. In the next moment, he’s dismissed Lestrade from his mind, and looks over at John.

“Come on, John. We may as well return home. There’s no _useful_ information to be gained here.”

John stays silent, sending an apologetic look at Lestrade before doing his best to fall into step with Sherlock’s much longer gait.

“Do give us a call if by some miracle you’re able to find any useful evidence,” Sherlock says over his shoulder. Neither of them bother turning as they make their way to the main road to find a taxi.

They walk some minutes in silence before they find one, and then they’re both silent as the cab takes them back home.

In fact, they don’t speak until they’ve climbed the stairs and closed the door behind themselves, their flat dark and dry and warmer than the city outside.

There are shadows flickering over the walls—a small fire in the grate, presumably set and stoked by Mrs Hudson before she left to visit her daughter in Northampton.

“You know who the killer is,” John says, conversationally, as he removes his jacket and scarf to hang them up.

“Of course,” Sherlock answers easily. He’s already removed his coat and scarf and he perches himself on the sofa, steepling his hands under his chin.

“So why didn’t you tell them?” John asks curiously.

“You were cold, wet, and miserable. It was obvious you wanted to be here rather than at a crime scene, and your leg was starting to give you trouble. You are clearly in no shape to go chasing after the killer, and I was being truthful when I said there was nothing more to be gained at the scene.”

John blinks at Sherlock’s straightforward and candid response—not unheard of, but not typical—before making his way over to Sherlock and sitting beside him. He can feel where Sherlock’s thigh touches his, warm through the damp denim still clinging uncomfortably to his clammy, cold skin.

“You could have told them what to look for before we left, though,” he points out reasonably.

“I could have,” Sherlock agrees, moving his arms apart to make room for John to shift closer so that their bodies are touching all along their sides. John can feel Sherlock’s heat—comfortable and familiar—and the places he’s had enough time to observe and map in detail, features he knows better than the streets he grew up on. “But you didn’t want me to.”

“I never--”

“No, but that’s what that speech about heroes was really about.”

John doesn’t deny it, but he leans his body slightly into Sherlock’s, a non-verbal acknowledgement.

“Quite frankly, I don’t really care if anyone else considers the man a hero or not.” He pauses, presses against John briefly, and then says, “But you think there’s something to it, despite how you typically feel about such things. And you’re the closest I’ve met to a true hero, so—perhaps in this case, your knowledge exceeds mine.”

John can’t help the smile that blooms across his face, having become accustomed to the way that Sherlock doesn’t say certain things. He’s able to infer the meaning plainly enough.

“Thank you,” he says, turning his head and pressing a soft kiss under Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock doesn’t turn his head, but John can read his pleasure and contentment in the twitch of his lips and the way his shoulders relax.

“Hungry?” he asks quietly, enjoying the warm, homely comfort seeping into his bones and driving the winter cold away.

“Starving,” Sherlock answers, finally turning his head and placing a quick kiss on John’s lips. “I’ll have my usual,” he says, moving away from John so that latter can stand and order.

John shakes his head and chuckles, heading to the phone. After Christmas is over, after Boxing Day, it’ll be business as usual, he knows. Still, while he may not be the man with the light, he thinks he knows the man who _does_ have it almost better than anyone else. And, because of that, sometimes he gets near enough and the light illuminates the darkness for him, too. It’s not quite magic when it happens, but it’s the closest thing to it that he’s ever witnessed.

He wouldn’t trade that for all the danger in the world.


End file.
